For Salt It’s Easy
Translated by Agnes Marton
Are we there yet, mister, at your flat?
The night is broken, I’m freezing,
I can hardly walk.
We should numb our senses,
but how?
This pain should be out.
What if this world were to cut, in me, a leak
and pull everything through?
What if the body were to be emptied,
turned inside out?
The soul might climb out.
Sometimes I’m standing at the station,
watching the smiling women,
how they laugh, walk, talk,
wearing pretty clothes,
then it comes to my mind:
one day they might be lined up,
naked,
who knows what would happen to them
before their execution.
Sometimes I see
crushed bodies everywhere
and I’m searching where
the calm will crack,
where death will step
between the days
and get stuck.
Because something washes,
slashes and splashes us,
like the sea,
and we have to stand empty-handed,
get used to the bangs.
The sea, mister, the sea
bites off our bodies
bit by bit.
All we have to do is
let our legs and arms swing
in the water
and the salt will burn
whatever it needs.
For salt it’s easy.
It whitewashes the body
grabbed out of the water,
takes the sun’s shine
and crackles.
This is how I soaked
my father in the sea,
but no matter how long,
he wouldn’t shrink,
his shadow wouldn’t fade.
He was just standing
in the water, straight up,
waiting for me to look into his eyes
and admit he was dead.
He was waiting for me
to find his eyes
and unhitch him
at long last.
